She isn’t hiding in it.

She’s healing in it, out in the open, with the door to the house unlocked and the rest of us on the other side, waiting for her and not afraid of her sadness.

The difference between that corner of the garage and the front seat of her car is the whole story, really.

They serve the same purpose — a place to set the day down before she carries herself inside.

But the car was a secret, a locked box she sat in alone in the dark, certain that if we saw her cry we would love her a little less.

The room is not a secret.